


Hero

by Tblewit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen, Oneshot, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 00:32:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18927652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tblewit/pseuds/Tblewit
Summary: He has had many names now.





	Hero

The Chosen One.

The Defeater of Darkness.

The Savior of Magic.

The King of Light.

The Knight of White.

He never asked to be given any of these titles.

He never openly sought them out.

Still, they follow him.

From time, to time, to time.

He has had many names now.

He had died and been reborn, died and reborn.

Why couldn’t he forget?

It was a new life, a different time…

So why?

He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to look up into a pretty blue sky and a second later sees it blacken with smoke and ash, and he is screaming now. He can’t stop screaming.

What is (was) his name again?

Who are (were) his parents again?

Is he a he?

She had been born female before too.

It hadn’t been bad. Eye-opening even.

Oh, look. The sky is blue again.

He blinks.

It's red, the color of blood. Not dark red at all. Bright and almost pretty with how vibrant it was. A sky shouldn’t be that color.

Had it been a fire that did that?

Oh. No.

It was a curse. That horrible, horrible, curse. He remembers now. He had been just a bit too late. He could only watch as the sky bleed red, and on the ground, everything else bled black.

There had been no survivors.

He blinks.

It’s blue again. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky. The weather is warm and sunny. He looks down at the ball in his hand. Had he been playing?

He looks around.

No one is here.

He is alone.

He looks back down at the ball.

He blinks.

It’s a head. He had been the one to sever it from its body, so he has no right to cry, but still, he does. He clutches the head to his chest and collapse.

Why?

Why didn’t you listen?

He had only their best interest at heart.

Now, look at them.

Blood seeks into the cloth of his legs, and the head is quickly losing warmth. He is alone here as well. It had just been the two of them. He had come knowing only one of them will walk away. He thought he had hardened his heart to the inevitable.

Around him, the world is silent.

A few feet away, the body lay. It’s hand still wrapped around a wand.

He hadn’t wanted to fight.

He had thought if he just waited it out, this time, surely, it would resolve itself?

It didn’t.

Now, look at them.

He is clinging on to the head of the one he thought closest to him, dearest to him.

He wishes next time he won’t remember. That this horror will be left here and forgotten.

He blinks.

He still remembers.

His hands are small, and he is young.

His name is different.

That person isn’t him. None of them are him.

But they are all him.

Over an over, time after time.

What was his name?

Who were his parents?

For a second, he can’t recall.

For a second, he is all of them, and he is lost.

Was it a curse?

Was this his curse?

He had tried. He really did.

Sometimes he succeeds. One after another, he is given a task, and he completes it, no matter how impossible or daunting it is.

Wasn’t that enough?h

No.

Of course not.

Because for every time he had succeeded, he had failed too.

What was the score?

If he had to guess, it would be fifty to fifty. Not that number specifically. It was just even.

Maybe this time he can break it.

Maybe this time will be the finale.

He had loved so many.

He had lost almost just as many.

He looks back down at the ball. It was red, a bright, vibrant red. Just like that sky, just like their blood. On the ground, one the walls, on his hands, and even on his wand.

It’s a color he is familiar with.

He doesn’t hate it. It’s pretty. Really, it is.

But he also knows how it can dry and blacken. How it smells when fire touches it, and how pink it can make the water when there is enough of it.

He wasn’t always the good guy.

Sometimes, he just went mad from it all.

Insanity was familiar too.

The sharp edges always cut him deep. It never gets dull.

Never.

He blinks.

They hadn’t seen it coming. He had thought he was finished. He had thought for once he could live out the rest of his life in peace.

He had been a fool.

It happened when they were all gathered together.

It had been his daughter birthday.

She had been turning one.

For once, his friends and family had made the time to come. It hadn’t seen them all in the same place since the war.

His daughter had been his arms. She had been right there. He can still remember how small she had been and how warm.

A second later, he had been drenched in her blood.

He was not given any time to react. To register that she was gone.

She had been right there.

How could he not have protected her?

She had been in his arm, smiling and happy.

Alive.

She was dead.

Everyone was dead.

Her unicorn cake was the only thing not drenched in blood. It was still sitting on the counter inside with a bright pink candle shaped like a one ready to be lit resting on top of it.

Wasn’t he supposed to be the hero?

Didn’t he have the power? The means?

She had been right there…

He blinks.

He touches his face with his still small hands. He is crying.

He hadn’t cried back then.

From time, to time, to time.

The memories get duller, and faint, only to be replaced with a new horror and a new victory.

He dies and is reborn again.

“Harry? Oh sweetie, what is the matter? Did you hurt yourself somewhere?” Lily Evans bend down to eye level with her weeping son.

“Mum?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Why do people die?”

Lily dabs at her son's eyes with the ends of her dress.

“Because it was just their time, honey. Is that what you were thinking about? Harry, I already told you thinking about such things will only make you sad. Here, look at your ball. It’s red, your favorite color. Do you want me to play with you?” She asks, giving her son a warm hug.

Harry looks down at the ball.

It is his favorite color.

He blinks.

It’s a head.

He blinks.

It’s a heart, dark and pulsing, even outside of the body.

He blinks.

It is his daughter, her pink dress is barely visible from all the blood and shredded skin.

He blinks, and he is crying harder. He is small again, young again. The sky is blue, the sun shines bright, and the weather is warm with a comfortable breeze. It’s a pretty day.

He drops the ball and flings himself into his mums’ arms.

 His throat feels raw from the screaming as he buries his head in his mums’ shoulder.

A door slams open and feet pound on the impossibly green grass.

“Is he alright?” James Potter asks, looking frantic and drench in worry.

Lily tightens her arms around her son, looking behind James to the robed figure that stands on the porch.

“No,” She pleads, shaking her head, “No, no, you promised. James _you promised_.” Tears well up in her pretty green eyes as she glares at the man she once loved.

“Ms. Evans,” Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, implores her.

“NO!” She snarls, and picks up her baby boy, taking a few steps back.

“Lily, _please_ ,” James begs her, taking a few steps forward.

“Not my baby, _anyone_ but my baby!” Lily sobs.

James head bows.

Headmaster Dumbledore watches with sad eyes.

Harry lifts his head up from his mum shoulder, his eyes instantly finding the jagged scar that starts at her neck and ends on the other side of her hip.

When he was a baby, a Dark Lord that calls himself Voldemort tried to kill him.

Voldemort failed.  

Voldemort is dead.

Tom Riddle Jr. is still alive.

Harry turns around to stare at his dad and at the elder man further back.

Maybe this time will be the end.

Maybe this time he won’t fail.

Predicting the outcome before it actually happens rarely works.

He won’t know until he knows.

He looks down at the ball.

He still likes the color red.

It’s pretty.

 

 

Years later, he has another name to add to his growing list.

The Boy Who Lived.

The Hero.


End file.
